Rosemary appears from a side hall like an angel from heaven.
“Is there a problem?” she says, looking from me to the horse-faced girl and then back again.
“I want my walker and she won’t get it,” I say.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t. All I said was—”
Rosemary holds up a hand. “Mr. Jankowski likes to have his walker beside him. He always does. If he asked for it, please bring it.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Get his walker.”
Outrage flashes across the horse girl’s face, replaced almost instantly by hostile resignation. She throws a murderous glance my direction and goes back for my walker. She holds it conspicuously in front of her, storming down the hall. When she reaches me, she slams it in front of me. Which would be more impressive if it didn’t have rubber leg caps, making it land with a squeak rather than a bang.
I smirk. I can’t help it.
She stands there, arms akimbo, staring at me. Waiting for a thank you, no doubt. I turn my head slowly, chin raised like an Egyptian pharaoh, training my gaze on the magenta and white striped big top.
I find the stripes jarring—in my day, only the concession stands were striped. The big top was plain white, or at least started out that way. By the end of the season it may have been streaked with mud and grass, but it was never striped. And that’s not the only difference between this show and the shows from my past—this one doesn’t even have a midway, just a big top with a ticket gate at the door and concession and souvenir stand beside it. It looks like they still sell the same old fare—popcorn, candy, and balloons—but the children also carry flashing swords, and other moving, blinking toys I can’t make out at this distance. Bet their parents paid an arm and a leg for them, too. Some things never change. Rubes are still rubes, and you can still tell the performers from the workers.
“MR. JANKOWSKI?”
Rosemary is leaning over me, seeking my eyes with hers.
“Eh?”
“Are you ready for lunch, Mr. Jankowski?” she says.
“It can’t be lunchtime. I only just got here.”
She looks at her watch—a real one, with arms. Those digital ones came and went, thank God. When will people learn that just because you can make something doesn’t mean you should?
“It’s three minutes to twelve,” she says.
“Oh. All right then. What day is it, anyway?”
“Why, it’s Sunday, Mr. Jankowski. The Lord’s Day. The day your people come.”
“I know that. I meant what’s for lunch?”
“Nothing you’ll like, I’m sure,” she says.
I raise my head, prepared to be angry.
“Oh, come now, Mr. Jankowski,” she says, laughing. “I was only joking.”
“I know that,” I say. “What, now I have no sense of humor?”
But I’m grumpy, because maybe I don’t. I don’t know anymore. I’m so used to being scolded and herded and managed and handled that I’m no longer sure how to react when someone treats me like a real person.
ROSEMARY TRIES TO steer me toward my usual table, but I’m having none of that. Not with Old Fart McGuinty there. He’s wearing his clown hat again—must have asked the nurses to put it on him again first thing this morning, the damned fool, or maybe he slept in it—and he’s still got helium balloons tied to the back of his chair. They’re not really floating anymore, though. They’re starting to pucker, hovering above limp lengths of string.
When Rosemary turns my chair toward him I bark, “Oh no you don’t. There! Over there!” I point at an empty table in the corner. It’s the one farthest from my usual table. I just hope it’s out of earshot.
“Oh, come now, Mr. Jankowski,” Rosemary says. She stops my chair and comes around to face me. “You can’t keep this up forever.”
“I don’t see why not. Forever might be next week for me.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Do you even remember why you’re so angry?”
“Yes, I do. Because he’s lying.”
“Are you talking about the elephants again?”
I purse my lips by way of an answer.
“He doesn’t see it that way, you know.”
“That’s cockamamie. When you’re lying, you’re lying.”
“He’s an old man,” she says.
“He’s ten years younger than me,” I say, straightening up indignantly.
“Oh, Mr. Jankowski,” Rosemary says. She sighs and gazes toward heaven as though asking for help. Then she crouches in front of my chair and places her hand on mine. “I thought you and I had an understanding.”
I frown. This is not part of the usual nurse/Jacob repertoire.
“He may be wrong in the details, but he’s not lying,” she says. “He really believes that he carried water for the elephants. He does.”